and I’m the wrong species. I like Sinclair, too. I like him a lot. What happened with him was pretty awesome, too. And the whole idea of having an actual boyfriend . . . it’s appealing, you know?”
“I know.” She sounded sympathetic. “So . . . no temptation scenarios?”
“No.” I shook my head. That was the term I’d coined for the times when my father, Belphegor, was able to whisper through the gaps in the Inviolate Wall, which was not exactly as inviolate as its name suggested, to promise me the wonders that would exist if only I claimed my birthright. “So maybe there are worse things in the world I could do than act like a normal, healthy twenty-four-year-old woman, right? Hey, that reminds me. Ever hear anything about a lawyer named Dufreyne?”
“No.” Jen frowned. “Why?”
I told her about the guy in the PVB office.
“Huh.” She propped her chin on one hand. “You know, now that you mention it, I have heard rumors about some out-of-town investor buying up lots around the river channel. You think this guy’s representing him?”
“I bet.”
Jen eyed me. “Sounds like he’s got some kind of power of persuasion if he could actually get Amanda Brooks to consider it. She’s always going on about the founding families and her heritage.”
I thought so, too. And okay, my tail gave an envious little twitch. It kind of sucked to be a hell-spawn with no discernible benefits. But envy was one of the Seven Deadlies. I was already skating on thin ice with lust, and thanks to my mom’s upbringing, I was committed to being one of the good guys, dammit.
“Yeah,” I said. “But I talked her out of it—or at least I think I did.” I made a devil-horns sign with my right hand. “Oh, and by the way? The hell-spawn lawyer dude? Stacey Brooks thinks he’s hot.”
Jen made a face. “She would. Did you warn her?”
I smiled. “Nope.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t have, either.”
Eight
After getting off to a wild start, Labor Day weekend seemed to be settling into a more sedate pace, which was okay with me. Having had the chance to debrief with Jen, I felt more settled myself, no longer bursting at the seams with my news.
I called my mom to touch base, giving her an edited version of last night’s events. Like everyone else in town, she was dying to know about the orgy.
“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed when I gave her the lowdown. “Well, that explains why Lurine isn’t answering her phone today.” She paused. “Are you sure she’s all right?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “At last glance, I’d say she had the situation well in hand. Literally.”
“Daisy!” Mom tried to sound scandalized, but I could tell she was laughing. “So no one was hurt? And you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assured her. “No one was hurt.”
I hoped it was true, anyway. Stefan had said he sensed no one had taken great harm from the experience. Which reminded me that in my capacity as Hel’s liaison, I probably owed him a formal thank-you for his assistance last night.
If I thought about it for too long, I’d talk myself out of it, so instead I drove over to the Wheelhouse after I ended the call. Not that long ago—like, just earlier this summer—the Wheelhouse wasn’t a place I’d have gone to alone. It’s a biker bar and a ghoul hangout, and it’s always had a dicey reputation.
But now it was Stefan Ludovic’s headquarters, too.
Even so, I took dauda-dagr out of the hidden inner sheath in my messenger bag and belted it around my waist before I ventured into the Wheelhouse. The first time I’d walked into this bar, I’d been on an investigation with Cody and the atmosphere was markedly hostile. But that was before Stefan had successfully squashed a rebellion and consolidated his power over the Outcast in Pemkowet. It was also before I’d killed two ghouls: poor Emma Sudbury’s deranged sister, Mary, and her . . . boyfriend, I guess, who I only ever knew as Ray D.
I hadn’t been in here since.
It hadn’t changed all that much. It was still a rough place where rough-looking guys in leather vests or jackets with Outcast motorcycle club colors gathered to shoot pool and drink beer, many of them with eyes that glittered a little too brightly in the dim light, watched by tired-looking mortal women who had histories of violence and hardship etched on their faces. But it was different. It felt different. Still dangerous, but